1. The letdown.
Recently, one of my cousins sent me a story about a grade school teacher in Florida is evidently in trouble with the school board because it turns out she is a member of the U.S. Bikini Team and a lingerie model. Seems the puritanical bureaucrats in this country don't really like the image of the wholesome schoolmarm sullied by images of the women teaching our children as sexual (oh so very sexual) beings. Here's what we're talking about:
Predictably, my cousin's remark is an understandable one: to wit, "Why the FUCK didn't I have teachers like this in MY high school?" This was the same reaction that millions of heterosexual American males had upon the arrest and subsequent conviction of Debra LaFave.
Millions of American women expressed their outrage at this woman taking advantage of her 14-year-old student by having sex with him repeatedly, bewailing the poor fate of this teenaged boy. Millions of American men, privately or not so privately, responded, "Yeah, if only MY high school years had been so tragic." I mean, if your this kid's mom, you're horrified. If you're this kid's dad, basically, you take him aside and say, "High five. How about I buy you some pot, a bottle of Jack Daniels right now so we can get the rest of your important life experiences out of the way and you can get on with the rest of your life, which will never be this cool again?"
But I digress. Although these reactions are obvious and common to any straight male, I suddenly remembered my high school French teacher, a woman I'll call Mrs. Miller. (Conveniently enough, her name was: Mrs. Miller.) Mrs. Miller wasn't quite as hot as Ms. LaFave or the Bikini Teacher -- she didn't have those beautiful clear eyes and that flaxen blonde hair and that beautiful bone structure. She did, however, have the body of a fitness instructor, which was understandable since she moonlit as an aerobics instructor. Since, as a horny high school teen, I was willing to fuck a much uglier class of wimmin, you can see clearly that I would have gouged out my right eye for a chance to plow the Miller fields. French class was unintelligible to me because the General was always standing at attention, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Alas, it was not to be.
Near the end of my college years, I heard through the grapevine that Mrs. Miller got a divorce. And a few years after graduation, I heard her voice calling, "Bonjour, DrunkenPigBoxer!" while I was at home for a visit and picking up a few things at a grocery store. The General snapped to attention as I turned around to look at Mrs. Miller. She was divorced! I was a hip, happening man and no longer her student! I'd make her see what she'd been missing all those years back!
And as I gave her that automatic once over all men give all women, the General wilted in dismay. For time had not been kind to Mrs. Miller. Her face, which had always looked acceptable thanks to generous amounts of makeup, had aged beyond Revlon's ability to hide it. And she clearly had quit her gym membership a few months back and the Twinkies were beginning show. Just a bit. But enough to make the General sputter in confusion: "What the fuck? Where's the French hottie? I didn't snap to attention for a soon-to-sag! Fuck this, I'm going back to bed!"
The resulting conversation hopefully sounded normal to Mme. Miller, but to me, it was incredibly, incredible awkward and I couldn't wait to leave the store with my supersized bag of heaven.
Moral of the story? There is a downside to having a hot teacher in high school, especially since you're probably not going to be so luck as to bang her. The inevitable disappointment of seeing the immediate decline of your adolescent beat-off fantasy.
2. Speaking of old fantasies ...
So in high school and early college, my "type" of girl was the pale, dark-haired goth chick. Over the years, my tastes have changed and become more eclectic. But last week, I decided to change my status as the only comic book fan who hasn't read "Sandman" yet and picked up the first volume. It's awesome, and deals with the adventures of the anthropomorphic incarnation of Morpheus -- aka the Sandman -- King of the Dreamworld. Morpheus and his relatives all rule over various mythological aspects of life.
Lo and behold, it turns out Morpheus is related to Death --a cheerfully quirky and morbid (of course) Goth chick:
Maybe dying won't be such a bitch after all.
3. Yep, it still works.
Today at work I had to call one of our affiliate offices in Lexington, Kentucky. The nice receptionist answered the phone with clear, mellifluous voice and a Southern belle accent had my third leg growing and the rest of me melting into a puddle.
I tried to figure out how I developed this Pavlovian reaction to a female with a Southern accent. I'm guessing it's a combination of Daisy Duke and my experience one night in Dallas. You see, Southern girls are so genteel and charming they make you feel good even when they're rejecting you. I swear, even as they were telling me that they didn't want to spend the evening giving me beejers and were actually not that turned on by my rented Ford Focus on the parking lot, they would bend down, show me some extreme cleavage and blow in my ear before giving my crotch a squeeze. No, this was not in a strip club. And no, this was not just one girl. It happenned all night. Fuck, if I had hit on two more girls, I could have gotten enough crotch grabs to cumulatively call it a handjob.
So yeah. Southern girls. Delicious.
